


State of Grace

by Nemainofthewater



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Grace - Freeform, Happy Ending?, Introspection, Loss of Grace, Originally written in 2017, an old fic I discovered going through my documents, and thought might as well, falling, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:20:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22479325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: There is a clearing in Illinois. Bad things are said to have happened there. Perhaps a forest fire.(But there was no smoke, no indication of any flames.)In any case, it is a deserted place, shunned not only by animals, but also their less sensitive human brethren.And then, from one second to the next, it wasn’t.He is alive.That is… Unexpected. A not entirely welcome. He had expected to die aiding the Winchesters, and that he is still breathing (insomuch as a Celestial Being needs to breathe) means that the fear and doubts that have plagued him throughout the last few months are still present.He shivers as he remembers Heaven’s mercy.(“You do not serve Man, Castiel. You are Agent of Fate, not a tool to be used by the Winchesters.”)His wings curve inwards protectively, and a few stray feathers fall to the ground. And then… he hears the cry of his Human’s soul.“Not Sam, you feathery bastards!”He takes flight.The clearing is once again quiet and deserted. Where the angel stood, a small sapling unfurls its leaves.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Gabriel (Supernatural)
Kudos: 10





	State of Grace

**Author's Note:**

> I was looking through old documents and I found this, which I had written but apparently never posted? Originally written in 2017, I though I might as well publish it 😅

There is a clearing in Illinois. Bad things are said to have happened there. Perhaps a forest fire.

(But there was no smoke, no indication of any flames.)

In any case, it is a deserted place, shunned not only by animals, but also their less sensitive human brethren. 

And then, from one second to the next, it wasn’t.

He is alive.

That is… Unexpected. A not entirely welcome. He had expected to die aiding the Winchesters, and that he is still breathing (insomuch as a Celestial Being needs to breathe) means that the fear and doubts that have plagued him throughout the last few months are still present.

He shivers as he remembers Heaven’s mercy.

(“ _You do not serve Man, Castiel. You are Agent of Fate, not a tool to be used by the Winchesters.”)_

His wings curve inwards protectively, and a few stray feathers fall to the ground. And then… he hears the cry of his Human’s soul.

“ _Not Sam, you feathery bastards!”_

He takes flight.

The clearing is once again quiet and deserted. Where the angel stood, a small sapling unfurls its leaves.

**

It isn’t until he attempts to heal Robert Singer, that he realises what he’s lost. He instinctively reaches out for Heaven’s Gift, only to recoil in pain. Where once he felt the Harmony of his Siblings, there exists nothing but a gaping maw. A wound where he has been severed from the Host. He can still hear them. That is his only consolation. A few more feathers drop from his wings, and he knows.

His Grace is leaking out of him like oil from a broken vessel. He can no longer contain the power of Heaven. In a few short years he will be indistinguishable from the Humans that surround him, dragging his skeletal wings behind him. And yet… he will always be able to hear them. He will never be able to forget what he has lost.

And these Humans. Their prayers still ring in his ears. They accuse him, and shout at him; asking him why he will not help. They ask why he will not help their loved ones, they blaspheme and curse him. He can no longer shut them out. Once the floodgates to ‘feelings’ are opened, they can never again close.

He silently picks up the feathers that litter the floor and press them through Robert Singer and into his soul. He can no longer hear; but at least he can alleviate some of the pain.

Then he sets off while he still can. He must find his Father.

**

Mumbai. Rome. Paris. Lusaka. Nuwara Elia.

He spends a moment on the top of Adams Peak as he studies the prayers that have settled into the worn steps of the holy mountain point. Pilgrims’ feet have smoothed them into silk, but he can find no trace of his Father. So he takes flight once more, leaving behind small heads poking their heads out of the earth.

Seattle. Heredia. Tokyo. Montpellier.

Thick clover marks his progress through Ireland, a small wound dripping Grace from where he narrowly missed dying at the end of his Brother’s blade. He no longer has the strength to heal it fully. A new oak tree springs up overnight at Tara.

In Reykjavik he finds Gabriel. Or more accurately, Gabriel finds him.

“Whoa, slow down there bro, I come in peace!” the Archangel declares, his wings relaxed, hands raised in what is recognisable as the human ‘Unarmed! Do not shoot!’. (Raphael’s wings had been spread to their full capacity, formed of lightning and wrath).

He is unconvinced. Gabriel is an Archangel, and could kill him with a thought.

“How did you find me?”

He glares at the elder balefully. He cannot stop the hot pang of jealousy that sweeps through him seeing Gabriel’s wings. They are bright gold and pristine.

His wings, in the other hand… They are ragged and have numerous bare patches. Fairly soon he will no longer be able to fly. They are no longer a brilliant white, but have faded toward a dirty grey.

“How did I find you?” Gabriel snorts, munching on M&Ms. “Better question: how haven’t you been found before now?”

He can’t stop a flush of shame, and his wings tighten around him as he tries not to remember the look in his Sister’s eyes as her Grace shattered. She hadn’t been angry, merely confused. She thought to help him, to stop his blasphemies.

Gabriel is studying him carefully.

“I followed the clover of course. Top tip: when trying to be inconspicuous, don’t leave a glowing trail behind you! You’re like a leaky faucet baby bro. Easier than GPS.”

As if to underscore his point, a crop of snowdrops appear by his feet. There is a reason he has been staying away from the Winchesters.

“Oh for Dad’s sake.”

Before he can react, Gabriel has placed a hand on his wound, and for the first time is weeks he feels relief.

“You can’t keep this up.”

For the first time the Archangel looks serious, more like the Messenger that he remembers Before.

“You’re gonna burn out at this rate.”

“Perhaps,” he replies, and takes flight. He should still have enough energy to check the flatbreads that Dean suggested.

(He cannot stand the tinge of pity in his Brothers gaze.)

**

Holy Fire can still trap him.

In Carthage, one building is surrounded by wild basil.

**

Feeling the sigil carved into his chest, he knows that this is then end. He won’t survive this, but at least his death will serve some purpose, and he will die an angel. He flares his wings as he hasn’t done for months, and watches as daffodils spring up around him.

“Are you doin’ that Cas?” Dean demands.

The Righteous Man looks… he believes the correct term is ‘freaked’.

As he is still angry at the human, that is nothing but an unexpected bonus.

“Let’s go,” he says instead.

When he awakens surrounded by beeping machines, he knows that it is over. He is human.

(He is also unexpectedly alive. Again.)

As he recovers, trees do not grow at his feet. He does not leave a trail of flowers wherever he goes, and his wings drag in the dirt.

He only has three gleaming feathers left, out of hundreds. They are the only things that distinguish him from the masses.

The night before they confront Lucifer, he plucks one and places it on Dean’s sleeping form. It is slowly absorbed into his soul, easing the nightmares that still plague the hunter.

He is aware that it is ‘seriously creepy Cas, c’mon, stop that dude’ but he believes he can be excused, just this once.

It is his last night on Earth, and he plans to sit here quietly.

The Holy Molotov burns Michael’s feathers nicely.

**

He returns to Life again, and this is getting ridiculous.

But Michael and Lucifer are in the Cage, thanks to Sam’s sacrifice. He feels something that might be grief, but there is no time for such an emotion, and it quickly transforms into determination. He restores Bobby’s soul to his body from where the (mostly) dead hunter had been arguing with his Reaper.

(Somewhere along the way other man he stopped being Robert Singer and became Bobby, the only one who could understand the anguish that came from losing two functional limbs.)

He stands over his charge, sees his swollen faces, and his tarnished soul, black with despair.

Well. He can fix at least one of those.

“Cas?” Dean croaks, “Are you God?”

“That’s a nice compliment Dean,” he replies, his wings once again gloriously whole. He can feel the plants around him, the insects buzzing, the sheer Glory of his Fathers’ work. It is tired, and slowly withering, too little attention paid to it in recent years. But underneath that fatigue, he can still feel… that one spark. If he extends his senses just so…

“But no.”

And around him the cemetery bursts to life.


End file.
